The Rope

Where does she tension exist when it's said to fill the room?
When it connects us like a knotted rope being fed to the loom.

When a pirouette of fibres, entwined in conversation.
Quivers the violin string, just before orchestration.

How can we both feel it, does it drift with the air?
Like a taught cable straining, prepared for the tear.

A balance between what has said, by whom, and yet to say.
So walk the tightrope, don't look down, and try to ignore the fray.

It's endeavour to hold forever ensures it'll never dare to sever.
This rhyme walks a tightrope, I better not try to be so clever.
However, more than ever, he wants no knots whatsoever.
Lest the rope break, like the tension in a room reduced, relieved, relax, breathe.